


the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

by rory_the_dragon



Series: and possibly i like the thrill (college au) [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Day Two, First Time, Friends With Benefits, It's all spit babey, Kinda, M/M, Maycury Week, Sex in the Seventies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 14:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: Brian might be starting to get into some trouble here.(Part III in the College AU Series)Posted for Day Two of Maycury Week





	the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

Sex, Brian has discovered, makes him play like a demon.

He suspected as much in the wake of the other night, spending the languid morning with his guitar trying to find the exact notes that were strumming in his head. He’d ended up with three pages of notes written on the back of his essay and had had to retranscribe the whole thing before turning it in, lest he alarm his unsuspecting Applied Mathematics tutor.

But in the immediate aftermath, endorphins still shooting though his body like stars, Brian’s fingers are flying across his guitar like he’s possessed. He can feel Tim and Roger looking at him, struggling to keep up at times, but he doesn’t have eyes for anything other than his strings. And for Freddie, sitting on that terrible sofa they all dragged in here when they claimed this practice room as their own. He’s sitting with Roger’s date and something about that thrills in Brian’s stomach, hot and possessive.

They didn’t arrive together, Freddie hanging back to light himself a cigarette outside the music building while Brian went on ahead, but ever since Freddie came through the door, Roger in tow, Brian has been hyper aware of the other boy. 

It’s hard not to be aware of Freddie anyway when he interjects every minute with a comment, relating to music or not, but especially so when Brian can still see the redness around his lips and feel the phantom heat of his mouth once again. There’s a smudge of Freddie’s eyeliner, caused by a tear, by Brian, that Brian pointedly didn’t warn him about, and every time he notices it again, his guitar sings under his fingers like a firework exploding.

Brian had fully expected the other night to be a fluke, a one off, something he would look back on as a crazy thing he did in college - his fantastic one night stand with a gorgeous boy who was gone like a dream in the morning. And he was satisfied with that, he supposed. Freddie has always been such an untameable creature, brimming with knowing smiles and wild stories, all so out of reach to Brian. 

He thinks of Freddie laid out beneath him, made suddenly so real in Brian’s bed, with Brian’s hands on him, and his fingers find a new note on his strings. The song changes in an instant and back, and he likes it, he thinks, the sound closer and heavier. Somewhere behind him he hears Roger make an excited comment, but ignores it in favour of trying it out again, and again.

He looks up, and Freddie’s watching him.

Brian is not the same as Freddie and Roger, no matter how many times Roger takes him out on London town. He’s never been able to let himself loose the way they do, except for when he’s got his guitar in his hands and something to play. He can’t imagine what he’s giving away now, but Freddie’s gaze is dark and hot and Brian grins.

The other boy is fidgeting, Brian has noticed, has been since he sat down, and he would honestly feel bad about that if he couldn’t vividly remember the way Freddie’s breath had hitched at the promise of _ after _.

Maybe he could have been satisfied with having Freddie just once. Maybe. It doesn’t really matter now whether he could’ve or not.

Freddie came looking for him.

Brian is big enough a man to admit to himself that he’s wanted Freddie for a while now. Since he swanned into their lives, incredible and larger than life, Brian’s been drawn to him. But it was easy enough to ignore, talk to Freddie about music and laugh at his stories — Freddie was Roger’s friend and Brian wasn’t going to be an idiot about it. It was easier to do nothing about it, right up until it was easier to give in and let himself have everything he wanted.

A monumental decision made in the split of a second, but Brian couldn’t care less. He feels like a live wire, and right up until Freddie pulls the plug and moves on, he’s taking all he can get his hands on.

Freddie shifts again and Brian plays faster.

Under Freddie’s stare, under the influence of whatever impossible thing it is they’re doing here, Brian probably plays the best he’s ever played and, yeah, he’s showing off slightly but he also couldn’t stop his hands from moving if he tried. The song ends anyway because of course the song ends anyway, but Brian can still feel it fizzling in his fingertips. He’s full of an energy he wants to press into Freddie’s hips.

Which is why he’s taken aback when Tim asks, “What the fuck was that?” with an edge to his voice so entirely at odds with the soaring sensation in Brian’s chest. Brian pauses with his guitar halfway unslung from his neck and feet already stepping tellingly in Freddie’s direction.

“What are you _ talking _ about?” Roger chimes in, incredulous, before Brian can even raise an eyebrow at the frontman. “We sounded wicked!”

“_Brian _ sounded wicked,” Tim corrects without looking at Roger. “_We _ got left in the dust.”

“Speak for yourself,” Roger mutters under his breath, and Tim ignores him. 

“What’s the problem, Tim?” Brian finishes putting away his guitar, one eye still on the sofa where Roger’s date is starting to huff at how long the proceedings are taking, and where Freddie hasn’t moved. In fact, Freddie’s frowning a little, eyes flicking between them in concern, and Brian has the sudden, violent worry that he’ll excuse himself from the room if they begin arguing in earnest.

“You can’t race off and do whatever the fuck you feel like,” Tim is saying when Brian turns back to him, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting. “We’re a band, we’re meant to work together.”

“Rog kept up,” Brian points out, and Roger shoots him a look. But the look is equal parts _ Careful _ and _ Fuck yeah I did _ so he doesn’t bother feeling too chastised.

“God you can be such a prick sometimes, Brian, you know that?”

Brian shrugs, unrepentant because if Tim is going to waste time being unreasonable then there’s no reason for Brian to humour him, which luckily is when Roger steps in with a quick “_ Guys_,” and a hand on both their shoulders. “It was a good practice, lads, let’s leave it at that.”

Tim looks ready to press the issue, and any other moment, on any other night, so would Brian. But he can still feel the phantom touch of Freddie, his body so aware of Freddie’s sitting a few feet away, and suddenly, for tonight, Brian doesn’t care about any music but the crescendo of sounds he’ll try and get Freddie to make later.

“Fine,” he says, instead of apologising, and turns away under the guise of fiddling with his guitar. He hears Tim huff, then the clatter of him collecting up his bass, his bag, then finally the door swinging open and shut. He doesn’t turn back around, but he can _ feel _ the look Roger is giving him.

There’s an intake of breath, most likely Roger about to try his best to play peacekeeper - a role he rarely plays and not entirely suited to him when he does - when his date cuts in and drags his attention away with talk of promised clubs and booze to be had. 

“You wanna come, Fred?” Roger asks a noticeably quiet Freddie, and Brian casts a glance behind himself just in time to see Freddie looking away from him to Roger.

“Not tonight, darling,” Freddie smiles, and Brian’s chest clenches at the sight, at the promise of Freddie’s words, just for him. “Go have fun with Cheryl - third wheeling’s not really my style.”

“Bri? Might burn off some of this weird energy you’ve got.” 

Brian raises an eyebrow and Roger raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, I know when I’m not wanted. Remember to lock up with you leave.”

“I’m not the one who lost us studio privileges for a week last term!” Brian calls after him but receives only a parting laugh in reply. 

The door closes behind them with a quiet click, and it’s loud in the sudden silence. Brian’s mouth feels dry. Since his damn watch went off, hours ago now, he’s been waiting for this moment and now he has it in his hands he’s not sure what to do with it. With Freddie pressed up against him, mouth red and chest heaving, undeniable hardness shoved against Brian’s leg, Brian knew exactly what to do. He’d been racing to catch up with Freddie and more specifically Freddie’s mouth, but he had it under control. Now he feels lost once again, and suddenly, stupidly, wishes he had his guitar back around his neck if only for something to do with his hands.

Freddie must take pity on him, or maybe it’s revenge, because he unfolds himself from the sofa and his walk towards Brian is slow, purposeful.

“Not sure why you’ve got so much weird energy,” Freddie stops a breath closer than anyone else would have, but still an inch too far away for Brian’s liking. “Anyone would think you hadn’t just been blown out of your head three hours ago.”

“It wasn’t quite three hours.” Brian’s not sure why he’s arguing but he feels a little helpless to anything coming out of his mouth when it comes to Freddie. 

“Well, it fucking felt like it.” Brian laughs at the petulant note in Freddie’s voice, and Freddie pokes a pointy finger into Brian’s chest. “Hardly polite behaviour, darling, making a boy wait like this.”

Brian reaches out and easily catches the hand Freddie’s poking into his ribs, pulling Freddie in. Freddie comes easily, petulance all a show, and Brian’s body seems to know what to do even if Brian fully doesn’t as he ducks to fit their mouths together, taste the redness he’s been staring at all evening.

“You bastard,” Freddie complains, without heat, against his lips. “You’re not even sorry.”

Brian shakes his head, because it’s true and because it’ll rile Freddie up some. Which it does, even if Brian can _ feel _ the edge of the smile Freddie’s trying to bite back before he bites it into Brian’s mouth. 

Brian’s brain echoes. If he had a spare thought he’d think that it sounds like the note he found on his guitar, heavy and deep and radiating through his body. He bites back, soothes the nip with his tongue even as his own lips burn, and Freddie’s hands fist in his shirt.

There’s not an inch of spare material on Freddie’s clothing, jacket long ago discarded, so Brian grabs his hips to pull him closer and Brian’s been a teenage boy, he knows how quick a body can react under the right (read: any) circumstances, but _ fuck _ they’re both half hard already. If Brian’s being honest, he’s been closer to hard than not ever since Freddie began shifting in his seat and staring at Brian like he wanted to crawl inside him. Brian doesn’t know how a look can affect him so much but he’s beginning to believe all the stories he heard in school about the dangers of sex - he’s never felt more out of control in his life.

He tries gathering up his wits but they’re somewhat scattered as Freddie drags a hand in his hair, pulls at the tight curls and rips a groan Brian wasn’t expecting from himself. Somehow he manages to move them, using the grip he has on Freddie’s hips, topples them onto the sofa Freddie just vacated, still warm from his body, and if the breath huffs out of Brian as they come back together, he’ll blame it on Freddie’s weight settling in his lap. All nine stone soaking wet of him.

Freddie is, objectively speaking, a lot better at this than Brian. He has his tongue in Brian’s mouth and the buttons of Brian’s shirt undone in a blink, and Brian is racing to keep up, pushing hands up the smooth skin of Freddie’s back and scanning the tight shirt off and away from him. He idly becomes aware that this is _ the sofa _ that they _ sit on _ and then decides he couldn’t care less as Freddie pulls back with a gasp and his eyes are blown to blackness.

Yeah. It’s hard for Brian to regret making Freddie wait so long when this is the vision he’s given as a result.

“Are you,” Freddie asks, hands fisting in Brian’s collar and hips giving a sudden, punishing roll. “Going to make it up to me?”

Brian’s ready to hand Freddie the deed to his parent’s house if he just doesn’t stop moving like that.

In lieu of saying that or anything else equally pathetic, Brian wraps a hand around Freddie’s neck and brings him down for a rough, open kiss and proceeds to do exactly that.

***

After that third time, that third deliberate _ planned _ time, it’s very easy to fall into a pattern. 

They begin waiting around after practice as a matter of habit, the old sofa proving a very popular spot, either that or racing off first to be able to catch the other at the bottom of the stairs and drag to somewhere more private. After nights on the town with Roger, Brian will hear a soft tap on his door and open it to a slightly drunk and very handsy Freddie tipping into his arms. Freddie finds Brian in the science building and they smash a set of very expensive beakers in the store-room. Brian runs into Freddie in the quad and somehow finds himself in a nearby bathroom with one hand over Freddie’s mouth and another down his trousers. 

And it’s not just the sex, though the sex is pretty phenomenal. In the afterglow, Freddie is loose-limbed and looser-lipped, and conversations span hours with frightening ease. It’s always been easy to talk to Freddie, he has a quick mind and a sharp tongue, a deadly combination that Brian’s quite helpless to, and he thinks about things in such an interesting way that Brian can’t help but be in awe of him, sometimes, of this creature he’s somehow convinced into his bed. Brian catches himself a lot over the next few weeks, craving Freddie’s company as much as he does his body, remembers stupid little things he wants to tell him or ask his opinion on, and-

Brian might be starting to get into some trouble here.

Because they’re not going together, not finding secret corners of quiet restaurants to hole up in together or sneaking into movie theatres to hold hands in the dark. Brian’s clueless about how that would even work but if Freddie asked him he’s sure he’d figure it out. 

But Freddie’s not asking for anything like that and maybe Brian’s alright with that right now because this is already so much more than he ever truly knew to want, all clumsy mouths and desperate hands. It’s frantic, desperate, completely mad and the absolute best thing Brian’s ever done. It’s new and exciting and then, suddenly, it’s Christmas and now Brian is staring down the barrel of two weeks back in Feltham, alone, when his body is currently a constant thrum of _ FreddieFreddieFreddie _. 

A month ago, hell, less than that, and Brian could have honestly and truly said that his lack of a sex life was no trouble to him. He had his, somewhat overwhelming, workload. He had the band. He had very little time for anything else. But now, knowing the way another body can work in tandem with his, intimately familiar with how much better someone else’s hand feels against him than his own, drunk on the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach and the way it explodes into stars, and Brian’s not sure he’s capable of life without it. And if it makes him pull Freddie a little tighter, kiss him a little rougher, as if he can store up the sensations and last on them for as long as he can, Freddie doesn’t look to be complaining anytime soon.

It’s in a mood like that, overwhelming and frustrating, overthinking events that haven’t even occurred yet, that Brian gets on his knees for Freddie for the first time and to be honest it helps take him out of his head a little, focusing on the movements of his tongue, trying to replicate the intelligent flicks Freddie always gives him before giving himself over to the instinct of whatever makes Freddie cry out the loudest. He must give a satisfying performance by the way Freddie yanks at his hair and the heavy rise and fall of his chest when Brian wipes his mouth and bites his way back up to take Freddie’s gasping mouth.

“Are you coming out tonight?” Freddie asks a little while later, once he’s returned the favour and they’ve both caught their breath. It takes a second for the words to sink into Brian’s brain, another second for him to understand them, and one more for him to laugh, incredulous.

“_That’s _ what you’re thinking about right now?” He asks, trying hard to sound at least a little bit offended but instead just sounding amused. Freddie, he’s learnt, has a curious outlook on pillowtalk. Namely, simply picking up the conversation where they left off, as if they never stopped. It’s helpful, really, because Brian has a tendency to start thinking about the shape of Freddie’s hands and how he’d like to kiss them, gentle and chaste, which he thinks might rather be giving the game away at this stage.

“Well, I could wax poetic about the size of your cock if you like, dear, but then your ears will go that _ delightful _ shade of pink- _ There it is - _and then where will we-” Brian shuts him up with a kiss that Freddie laughs into, mumbles “I could say a little something about your mouth too, if you like?” then squeaks as Brian digs his fingers into his ribs.

Rough-housing could easily turn into another athletic round of sex, which neither of them are up for right now, so they call it quits and begin searching for belts and shirts, the most common sartorial casualties when they stumble into the small storeroom on the ground floor of the music building.

“So?” Freddie asks, fixing his hair. Brian reaches over and tugs one of the slight ruffles that he’s missed back into place. “Tonight? Roger’s Big Christmas Night Out? Too much vodka, not enough clothes, girls, music, the various stunning drinking houses of South Kensington?”

“I’m familiar with his work, yes.” Brian can’t help but grin as Freddie prattles on.

“_Well? _” Because Freddie is not to be swayed. “Darling, if you bail on this to write another sinfully dull essay then I’m going to have to seriously reconsider whereabouts I let you put your-”

“I’m coming.”

“_Hands _,” Freddie finishes with a smug grin. Brian rolls his eyes but can’t help his laugh.

Brian couldn’t get away with skipping tonight even if he wanted to, and with the promise of Freddie, the lingering taste of salt on his tongue, he definitely doesn’t want to. Roger has been hounding him since September about tonight, ignoring all of Brian’s _ Yes, Rog, I’ll come but only if I get my assignments complete before break _ and taking it as a solid _ Yes, Rog, I’ll come _that would mean the greatest of betrayals if Brian were to even attempt to back out. As it is, Brian handed in his final Christmas deadline forty minutes ago, celebrated by finding Freddie in the music rooms and dragging him in here, and though he has several papers due in January, Brian feels he deserves a night out. A night out with Freddie sounds even better.

“Mint?” Brian blinks to find Freddie offering him a small packet, wrinkled and half-empty. “First rule, dear, if you’re going to jump poor innocent boys on the stairs for a quick round of cock-sucking you need to start carrying some of these.”

Practical to the last. Brian accepts, rolls the sweet around his mouth, and tries not to think about how many of the mints are missing from Freddie’s packet as Freddie busies himself with leaving.

“So, I’ll see you tonight?” Freddie stops with his hand on the door-handle, hand tucking a shy curl of hair back behind his ear, and Brian doesn’t often see the shyer side of Freddie these days, but every so often he makes an appearance in the guise of being coy.

“Tonight,” He promises, and Freddie’s smile is blinding as he disappears.

***

Four hours and five shirt changes later, and Brian is desperately trying to hold onto the swooping excitement he felt at the sight of Freddie smiling at him like that because all he can feel is a growing sense of panic.

“No, no, _ no_. For the love of _ god _, please take that thing off!” 

Brian jerks back from his mirror, almost choking himself on the damn tie he’s been trying to knot for the past fifteen minutes, to find Roger in his doorway, looking at Brian like one would look at an insect struggling in amber. Curious, but not without pity. Scowling, Brian turns back. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a night on the town, not a fucking conference, Bri.” Without being invited, as Roger does everything, he wanders in. “I know it’s been a while-“

“Two months is not-“

“_Basically forever _.” Roger’s grin is contagious even through Brian’s souring mood. He rolls his eyes to hide it. “But styles haven’t changed that much. Lose the fucking tie.”

Brian loses the fucking tie.

“Well, what now?” He huffs, feeling stupid and exposed, and Roger rolls his eyes at the dramatics.

“Unbutton the shirt. Bit more than tha- _ there _ you go, much better.”

Brian peers at himself in the mirror. He- Well, he actually doesn’t look half bad like this. Shirt unbuttoned past what’s proper and the slightest glint of his necklace showing. It’s hideously impractical for an evening in December, but Roger’s already handing him a jacket without a word, eying him critically and deeming him done.

It does look a lot better, relaxed and loose rather than the side of overdressed Brian tends to err on, and he imagines Freddie won’t be displeased with the look of him like this. Freddie never really tends to give a shit about Brian’s clothes except to tear them off, but he and Roger have spent hours discussing clothes and fashion; Brian think he’d quite like to impress him for once.

“You know,” Roger says, handing him a bottle of beer. “You’ve been in a lot better mood since you’ve been getting laid.”

Brian chokes on the swallow he just took, has to fight very hard not to cough, then harder still not to just spit it in Roger’s pleased looking face. Brian’s mother raised him better than that, so he gets himself back under control, tries to blame the redness in his face on choking, and asks as steady as he can, “What do you mean?”

Roger cracks up. “God I fucking _ knew _ it,” he crows, clearly enjoying himself immensely. “No one goes to the library three times in one night, Bri.”

“_I do _.” 

It isn’t a lie. Brian has definitely in the past visited the library upwards of three times in the space of twenty four hours. Just so happens that he hasn’t done that in months. The half-lie, added to the fact that almost every time recently he’s managed to get to the library, sooner or later Freddie has found him and thoroughly distracted him, and Brian’s ears feel warm. 

“Oh, you are so crap at lying! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

Roger Taylor is five foot ten of pure delighted evil and also Brian’s best friend. Brian is not getting away with lying to him tonight. He takes a swig of beer to steady himself. “Unlike some I could mention, Rog, I don’t feel the need to tote my sex life all over the college.”

Unaffected, Roger shrugs. “Sounds incredibly dull to me. Go on, who is she? Do I know her?”

A sudden, blistering urge rises in Brian to tell Roger everything. To brag maybe, or maybe just to try and make some sense of it all because sometimes, in the aftermath or the times in between, he truly feels lost in the face of what’s building between him and Freddie. But he hesitates. He’s not sure why, he’s not exactly _ hiding _ Freddie, he’s just not _ not _ hiding this. And try as he might, he can’t get the image of the crumpled packet of mints in Freddie’s hand out of his head. Which is absolutely ridiculous of him, because Freddie isn’t _ his _. 

Brian doesn’t want to be confronted with the reality of Roger, Freddie’s debauched brother in arms on the streets of London, looking at him like another poor sod looking to get his heartbroken.

Which Brian isn’t. That’s not what this is.

So, he hesitates, and Roger frowns, and then there’s hammering at the door. The first of many drunken revellers to begin the night, and while Roger can never turn down an opportunity to give Brian shit, he’s even less capable of turning down a good time. He points a finger at Brian, who ignores the promise for what it is, and heads off to hand out their meagre offerings of alcohol to whoever he deemed suitable to invite, which could be absolutely anyone, knowing Roger.

Brian gives himself one last once-over in the mirror, then heads out after him.

They get to the pub - _ “The first of many _ many _ pubs,” Roger crows _ \- somewhere around nine, already several cheap cans of beer in and therefore blissfully unaware of the December evening chill that steals in on their heels. They’re soon joined by more people than Brian can count, but who all know Roger, by name at least, and the drink begins flowing with irresponsible ease. 

Brian finds himself very glad very quickly for Roger’s intervention on his attire. Partly because it gets hot in their booth with the amount of people trying to squeeze in and mill around and pass dripping drinks to Roger - and, by dint of Roger not being able to drink sixteen pints at once, Brian - but also because when Freddie slips in the door, over an hour late and dressed to the nines, his eyes instantly alight on Brian, slip to the open collar around his neck, then flit back quickly as if nervous of being seen.

Already warm with drink, with the press of bodies, with the anticipation he hasn’t been able to quash even in the sobering light of Roger’s interrogation, Brian feels the look thrill through him, knocks back another shot of..._ something _and tries to look like he’s still paying attention to his conversation with Roger. 

Roger offers Brian no such attempt. As soon as he spots Freddie, Roger jumps to his feet, knocking over several bottles and an ashtray with his enthusiasm as he calls Freddie over with frantic, waving hands.

Some reshuffling, a couple of close calls with drinks, Freddie at one point being physically _ lifted _ over two laps, and Freddie’s seated opposite Brian, looking slightly ruffled around the edges but delighted as Roger immediately starts plying him with drinks. 

Freddie takes a sip and pulls a face, leaning in to demand “What is this_ swill? _”

“Everything,” Roger says, just as Brian laughs, “Anything,” and Freddie, face still pinched with distaste at the beer, toasts to that. They all clink glasses, grinning, and Brian is incredibly aware of the way his leg is kicked out far enough that, when Freddie is jostled by the amount of people crammed into the booth with them, he can’t help but press against him.

Freddie had just asked if Brian was going tonight. They didn’t make any plans to mess around afterwards - or during, Brian’s already surprised himself by the places and the times he’s wanted to have Freddie - but when Freddie, propped up on a delicate wrist and nodding seriously at whatever it is that Roger’s saying, pushes his knee back against Brian’s under the table, it’s as good as a promise.

The night blurs. It’s a steady rhythm of drinks and laughter and stumbling journeys to whichever pub is next on the sprawling map of Roger’s brain. Occasionally, someone will remember the pretext for the night’s indulgences and loud, off-key Christmas carols herald their arrival. Through some trickery or simply by virtue of being Roger Taylor, in every pub no matter how crowded, Roger manages to snag a table for them. And every time, no matter who else they find themselves talking to or drinking with, Brian, Roger and Freddie end up together again.

Brian is happily drunk, loose-limbed and relaxed. His deadlines are, for now, behind him. He’s got enough money for at least a couple more rounds, providing his rounds stretch to the three of them. He’s with his friends. And whenever he looks over at Freddie, Freddie is looking back, eyes dark and cheeks flushed.

He shouldn’t have let his guard down.

“So, Freddie,” Roger asks, voice surprisingly clear for a man who’s put away as much liquor in such a short space of time as Roger has, and a companionable hand claps heavy on the back of Brian’s neck. “Do _ you _ know who it is who took our dear, sweet Bri’s tender cherry?”

For the second time that night, Brian chokes on his drink.

His only consolation is that so does Freddie.

But then Freddie is lifting wide, questioning eyes to Brian and Brian wants the awful stained pub carpet to swallow him up. “You are such a _ wanker_,” he hisses acidly at Roger, who ignores him.

“Freddie is a _ master _ at this game. Undefeated. I once walked into the room and he knew-” Roger clicks his fingers. “-like _ that _ who I’d been with the night before.”

“I saw you _ leave _ with her, dear,” Freddie says, and he’s very politely turned away from Brian to give him a moment, which makes this whole thing so much _ worse_. “It wasn’t a hard solve.”

Roger waves him off dismissively, and now, too late, Brian can see the drink blurring the edges of his movements, making his hands clumsy and over-wide. “I’ve known Brian for two years-“

“Three,” Brian interjects, because he can’t help it and because, clearly, he’s an idiot.

“_Three _ years and not once, _ not once_, have I ever seen a love-bite on his fucking neck.”

Brian slams a hand to the side of his throat, skin suddenly burning, and he can _ feel _ the memory of Freddie’s mouth there, insistent and pressing, muffling himself on Brian. It probably hadn’t been smart of Brian to allow him to leave the marks, but they’d been low enough on his neck to cover with a collar and had felt bloody fantastic in the receiving. It had also given Brian free rein over the crook of Freddie’s neck, his chest, the skin behind his ear, to leave his own and with Freddie trembling underneath him he hadn’t cared about anything but that.

Without meaning to, his eyes fly to Freddie where, thankfully, a silk scarf is knotted about the other boy’s neck, covering any damning evidence.

Roger smirks at him. “Other side, actually, Bri.”

“Fuck you,” Brian says, and in any other situation it would sound fine. He’d be able to laugh it off, take the ribbing with good humour and field Roger’s questions as they got progressively more and more lewd before becoming incoherent altogether. 

But Freddie is sitting opposite him, and humiliation is burning thick in his veins, so the words come out harsh and very much meant. Roger blinks at him, confused, and Brian doesn’t wait around to see Freddie’s reaction. He needs air.

The cold outside instantly bites at his nose, his ears, but it’s a welcome relief to the flush of his cheeks, the hammering of his heart.

_ Fuck_. 

He inhales a little too deeply, trying to fill himself up with the fresh December air, tips his head back against the pub wall and searches for Canis Major. It’s not a clear night and he’s hidden down in the middle of London Town, but he thinks if he squints and closes one eye, he can see a couple of constellations bravely shining through. 

It distracts him, but just for a couple of seconds, so then he looks for Columba, and is just trying to convince himself that he can see the faint little constellation in amongst the smog when the pub door opens beside him.

He closes his eyes and prays for it to be Roger.

It’s not. Of course it’s not. Roger knows intimately the edges and lines of Brian’s temper, and definitely wouldn’t follow him out so soon after a blow up. An hour or two or ten and Roger will reappear on the periphery of Brian’s space, crack a smile or a crass joke, and Brian will have cooled down enough to continue as if nothing ever happened between them.

He wonders if Roger warned Freddie before he disappeared after Brian, but from the way Freddie is propped up against the pub door, eyebrow raised and arms crossed as he takes in Brian, Brian thinks that Roger’s probably aware that Freddie can handle himself. You’d have to be a tough son of a bitch to go about London the way Freddie does; Brian doesn’t think he’s even anywhere close to the top ten most frightening things Freddie’s had to deal with on the streets of London at night.

“And I thought _ I _ had a flair for the dramatic.” 

Brian doesn’t laugh. There’s a part of him that appreciates what Freddie’s doing, talking around the matter, making a joke, but Brian can feel the pit of his stomach twisting itself into knots at the thought of being laughed at. 

Taking his silence as permission to wander closer, Freddie does so, rests a small, light hand on Brian’s arm, which might actually be worse with how gentle it is. “Though if it were me, I would’ve thrown a drink in his face, so-”

Brian doesn’t get to hear so. He’s moving without giving himself permission to do so, catching Freddie’s wrist and tugging, because there’s an alley opening six feet away, long and dark and quiet. If he were brave, or stupid, he’d kiss Freddie in the street to prove he could. But he settles for crowding Freddie up against the cold brick and the shadows and trying to kiss any pity out of his mouth.

Freddie makes a muffled noise and Brian swallows it. Freddie takes a breath and Brian steals it. He presses as close to Freddie as he can, closer, cups his face with a hand and tilts him _ up _ until it’s teeth and tongue and a furious pace that aches at Brian’s jaw as he tries to- he doesn’t know what he’s trying to do. 

Freddie matches him kiss for kiss until Brian’s lips are stinging, until the surge of coiled energy begins to ebb, until Brian takes the gap in between kisses to breath, until the hand Freddie has fisted tight in his hair loosens, begins to stroke at the abused skin beneath. 

The last few kisses linger on swollen lips, hard to pull away, harder still when the warmth of Freddie’s tongue soothes at Brian’s bottom, bruised lip, but then Freddie tips his head back, almost out of reach, and forces them both to take a proper breath.

“Feel better?” The sudden hoarseness of Freddie’s voice doesn’t detract from the lift of his eyebrow, but the burning embarrassment of before has burned itself out in the dark. 

Brian’s head is spinning. He has to check he’s still on solid ground. He feels possessed, wild, and, when Freddie tests his own lips with a probing tongue, like he should possibly apologise. 

“I should slap you for that,” Freddie admonishes quietly, but there’s something dark in his eyes like a fire, and his hand is still gentle in Brian’s hair, so Brian figures he’s probably not going to.

“Will you?” He asks anyway, ducking his head to gently mouth an apologetic line up the side of Freddie’s throat, a sensitive place Freddie always caves to instantly. He feels Freddie sag a little and tightens his grip around his hips.

“Mmm, thinking about it,” Freddie sighs, and his hands fist in Brian’s jacket as Brian nips at the skin on offer. The small scarf about Freddie’s neck is in the way so he leaves them higher than usual, probably an unwise decision in the light of Roger’s apparently eagle eyed observations, but then he has the thought of what other, more interesting, things they could do with Freddie’s scarf and can’t help himself from dragging his teeth harder, making a mark like a promise to himself to do so.

“You want to keep doing this here,” Freddie laughs shakily. “And we are going to get a beating the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

Freddie’s so close that Brian can feel the heaving of his chest, and like this Brian’s sure he could hide Freddie away forever against him where no one else would ever find him. It’s established that Freddie doesn’t need his protection, and Brian’s not exactly in a position to offer it, but when Brian’s got him like this, all but holding him up, feeling light and delicate beneath his hands, he wants to so badly it aches.

He lifts his head, and instead of saying any of that, lets the alcohol buzz in his veins that’s definitely been compounded by the taste of Freddie on his lips, twist his mouth into a smile and say, low and dark, “How about if I suck you off again?” 

Because once doesn’t feel enough to Brian; he wants to perfect the art.

He bends his knees a little, as if about to make good, and Freddie catches him with a quick “_Bri-_ _Oh my god_.” Brian laughs, kisses Freddie again because he can and rolls his hips because he can do that too. He might not be fully serious about doing so, but he’s serious enough. “I think that’s just a simple angry mob for that one, possibly a night in lock-up, twenty pound fine?”

“Shame.” With a final, hopefully for now, kiss Brian steps back, and Freddie stumbles forward a little. “I’ll have to do it at home, then.”

And maybe he says it like a challenge, throws it out for Freddie to take or leave as he will. It’s dark in their alley, but the nearby street-lamp perfectly picks up the way Freddie tilts his head, licks his bottom lip, and smiles. Meets it wonderfully. 

“If you must.”

Brian pays for a bus ride home, too eager to get Freddie somewhere warm and quiet to walk back the circuitous route to Kensington they walked for Roger’s seemingly endless pub crawl, and the fluorescent lights of the cabin cast a light on the matter that Brian wasn’t expecting. Like this, Freddie is stark and real beside him, and Brian is aware of every inch pressed against him as they sit in near-silence. 

Unable to do anything else, certainly unable to press Freddie against the steamed up windows the way the pair of messily drunk first years seven rows ahead can, Brian tangles his foot around Freddie’s under the guise of stretching his legs, rests his arm across the thin metal pole atop their seats. Freddie sobers the rest of the way, and his hand falls to rest on his own thigh, two curled fingers managing to graze against Brian’s.

Brian’s heart hammers even more than it did in the alleyway.

He’s definitely in some kind of trouble with Freddie.

The brightness of the bus lights make it feel all the darker when they get outside, which is probably why Freddie finds the bravery to slip his hands around Brian’s waist in the hall as he works on getting his key into the lock, slide them up and under Brian’s shirt to the warm skin underneath as Brian tries to hustle them inside. 

He’s giggling when Brian manages to turn himself around, but the laughter dies when Brian ducks to capture his mouth.

Moonlight stripes the flat as Brian walks Freddie back into the room, hands at Freddie’s jaw, and around them, there’s only silence. Silence and the sounds of their breathing, of their mouths coming together again and again. It’s strange. Brian’s used to background noise when he’s with Freddie; the sound of classes continuing down the hall, of students in the library, the bathroom door swinging open at inopportune moments. He’s used to covering Freddie’s mouth, because the smaller boy has a hell of a set of lungs on him and gives himself over to sex with the kind of abandon that can be dangerous when one consistently fucks outside of bedrooms. He’s used to holding himself back just a little, to holding Freddie back just a little.

Tonight, Brian wants to hear Freddie be _ loud_.

He’s working on the zip of Freddie’s trousers - soft and slippery to the touch which, added with the slight clumsiness of his fingers from alcohol and the spinning sensation he always feels when Freddie kisses him and kisses him with purpose, makes the process a little harder - because Brian May is a man of his word, when Freddie must have the same or at least a similar thought, because he thinks to ask, breathy, “Roger?” 

Brian shakes his head. “Definitely not coming home tonight.” No less than four girls turned up tonight with the express desire of taking Roger home with them, and Roger was certainly planning on accommodating at least two. 

Without Freddie’s tongue in his mouth, he can focus enough to get Freddie’s trousers open and drops to his knees. “_ God_,” Freddie breathes, followed by the perfect sound of Brian’s name choked on a moan, as Brian takes him, already half-hard, in his mouth.

It feels depraved, doing this in their living room, and it makes something liquid and hot pool in the pit of Brian’s stomach as he holds onto Freddie’s slim hips, and pushes as far forward onto Freddie’s cock as he can manage. He’s not as accomplished at this as Freddie is, who is very much so, but Freddie’s hands fly to his hair and _ tug _ as Brian sets a slow pace of back and forth, giving himself time to get used to the sensation again.

He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but it feels as if Freddie is being more careful with him this time. The hands in his hair are tight, but not as tight as they have been before. The tilt of Freddie’s hips into his mouth weren’t impolite with their demand before, but part of him wonders if Freddie is holding back a little now, aware where before he wasn’t.

Which isn’t what Brian wants at all.

He wants Freddie at his best, Freddie pulling at his hair and his nails digging into his shoulders. He wants Freddie given over and definitely, _ definitely _, not in a position to be thinking clearly.

He hums, experimental and low, flicks his tongue, and almost the exact same note purrs out of Freddie, in tandem with a sharp kick of his hips. It’s a helpless little movement, gratifying enough for Brian to be satisfied, his own cock standing now to full attention. Especially when Freddie starts mumbling nonsense above him, “God, Bri, c’mon, that’s it- _ fuck_.” 

Brian thinks again of the packet of mints in Freddie’s hand and grips Freddie tighter, pulls him in closer, sucks in a deep breath through his nose and takes as much of Freddie as he can.

From the first, Brian’s been thinking about getting his mouth on Freddie like this. It’s distracted him from revision, from classes, even from being with Freddie as he’s tried to decide if he was up to the task yet. Freddie has always offered the task with a casual smile and an expert hand, so expert it served to be slightly daunting, and only the thought of two weeks without even the chance of it has managed to prompt him into action.

He hadn’t expected to like it as much as he had, but he should’ve. Like this, Freddie is even quicker to give over than usual, as if the hot heat of Brian’s mouth on him is closer to torture than pleasure, and his mouth is completely free to sing Brian’s name the way Brian’s become addicted to hearing.

Freddie moans it again as Brian pulls off to breathe, moves to sucking gentle at the tip like an obscene kiss, and Brian almost wishes he was planning to let Freddie come like this. 

He’s so hard in his trousers that it aches, and keeping his hand on Freddie’s hips rather than reaching down to palm himself roughly through the material is an exercise in all the restraint and control he has in his body. 

Brian is an expert in the way Freddie’s body prepares itself for orgasm by now. He could complete extensive case studies on the way Freddie’s breathing stutters and holds, expectant, or how his thighs always fall open, just a little. Brian can read the way Freddie’s abdomen tenses and his hips still, and pulls off before Freddie can hit dynamite.

“_Brian_,” Freddie whines, eyes flashing as he realises the sudden absence of Brian’s mouth, hands tightening in Brian’s hair in unspoken plea.

Unmoved, Brian takes him in. Freddie is a picture like this, lit up in moonlight and trembling, and Brian feels an unspeakable jealousy rise up in him for anyone who gets to see Freddie this way. He wants to take him, claim him, keep him away for his own, and he can’t do any of that but he can do this.

Brian’s hands are wide enough and Freddie is small enough that he barely has to move any to run the pads of his fingers along the dip of Freddie’s ass, curious rather than probing, and dips forward to press a soft, close-mouthed kiss to Freddie’s hip, completing the question.

He pulls back and finds Freddie’s eyes, clear and entirely dark, watching him.

The moment hangs in the air before Freddie’s hand loosens from Brian’s curls, to thumb at the curve of his cheek, gentle as his words as he asks, “You’re sure, dear?”

Brian stands. He feels bold and impossible and yet, with Freddie’s hand still gentle on his cheek, almost calm.

When he kisses Freddie it’s open and ready but not enough of an answer. “When I first picked up a guitar I had no idea what to do with it.” He starts walking Freddie backwards into the bedroom, kissing him intermittently, and Freddie allows both, trusting himself to Brian all over again. 

“Some of it came easy. My fingers-” He runs his hands up the warm smooth skin of Freddie’s back, peels the shirt from his skin and throws it somewhere dark and forgotten. “Knew what to do, I had good grip, good instinct for the sounds, but mostly I worked at it. Again and again and _ again_.” He punctuates each again with another kiss stolen from Freddie’s mouth, pulls back to murmur. “You’ve heard me play, do you think it’s paid off?”

The amusement in Freddie’s voice is overpowered by the thickness of his arousal even as he quirks an eyebrow. “Am I the guitar in this charming little metaphor?”

_ Better, _ Brian thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he tugs off his own shirt, and Freddie steps out of his trousers before they finally fall down and make a disaster of the whole thing, and then they’re on the bed and Freddie’s looking up at him, waiting.

“You only need to tell me once,” He says, resolve hardening in his chest, and maybe Freddie can see it because he nods, once, and reaches up to kiss him again.

“Get your kit off, then, darling,” He says into Brian’s mouth, and Brian yelps a little as Freddie pinches cheekily at his bum. He glares but Freddie is unrepentant, hands already pushing at Brian until Brian is forced to go, kick off his shoes, step out of his socks, strip away his trousers until he’s as naked and vulnerable as Freddie.

Nearly as. As he strips, Freddie turns, fluffs one of Brian’s pillows and settles himself. One knee pulled almost to his chest, Freddie is almost open to the eyes, and Brian is suddenly much too far away.

“It’s easier like this, the first time,” Freddie says as Brian takes the place left for him, pressing himself up behind Freddie, and Brian’s had Freddie in his bed several times now, every time his heart hammering, but now it feels like it’s about to jack-rabbit out of his chest.

Freddie turns his head, blindly seeking, and Brian takes his mouth without hesitation. The angle is off, terrible actually, but it has Freddie pressing back into him, so the now-slick tip of Brian’s cock rubs against the cease of Freddie’s ass, and Brian’s hips roll without him meaning to.

“I can…” Freddie trails off but lifts a hand meaningfully, as if to say the words right now would be terribly improper.

Brian bites down an inappropriate fond laugh and shakes his head. “Tell me.”

“It’s really easier to show.”

“Then do that.”

Freddie scowls at him as much as one can from this angle whilst sporting an impressive hard on, huffs a little as if Brian’s really being horribly impractical with this whole wanting to fuck him business, then collects up his right hand. “Right, _ well_, give it here then.”

Brian should not be as affected by two of his fingers being taken into Freddie’s mouth as he is. He’s had Freddie’s mouth on his dick and felt less breathless but Freddie’s tongue is wet and rolling, and Brian’s body tenses with anticipation. He wants to kiss Freddie’s neck, his cheek, but can’t tear his eyes away from Freddie’s mouth.

Once Freddie’s satisfied, he guides Brian’s hand down and back and _ god- _

Brian muffles the noise he makes on Freddie’s shoulder, but Freddie has no such restraint. He moans, deep, and Brian can _ feel _it. Freddie is tight heat around his fingers, body ready and waiting for Brian, and any instruction Freddie might have for him now falls on deaf ears as Brian presses deeper and moves his hand as if, finally, he knows what it’s for.

It’s instantly intoxicating. Freddie responds to his movements like nothing Brian’s ever seen. Where usually Freddie will writhe and grab and _ demand _ everything Brian can give him, right now he doesn’t seem capable of even attempting to make demands. As if all he could ever want is Brian’s hand working steady between his legs, opening him up so beautifully, and Brian’s more than happy to give it to him. Fingers crooked and curled inside of Freddie and Brian could stay like this forever, dragging Freddie to the edge and back, Freddie’s small noises growing loose and loud in the quiet of Brian’s bedroom and every one of them sounding like Brian’s name.

He’s making a mess of the small of Freddie’s back, slick and shiny tip of his cock rubbing against the skin there as he can’t help the rocking movements of his hips, weak echoes of the rocking of his hand.

“_Brian_.” It takes Brian a second to notice the difference in Freddie’s voice as he says his name, not a moan but an address. 

“Ready?”

Freddie nods. Brian’s not sure he’s ready himself, but is certain that if he stops he’ll die.

Still, it’s the hardest thing in the world, freeing his hand from Freddie’s body. It’s immediately beaten by the difficulty of getting a hand on himself and trying to find some presence of mind to line himself up, but somehow he manages both. He pauses at the last and reality comes down to a pinpoint, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment, its magnitude, the impossibility of taking it all back. 

Then Freddie reaches back silently, blindly, and gets a hand on his hip. Then, it’s stupidly simple.

Between one breath and the next, because Brian’s _ holding _ his breath, he pushes inside. Heat is all he can comprehend, that and an unbearable tightness that opens for him, engulfs him, and Brian is an idiot, shortsighted, blind, because this _ this _ is what he could do forever. Knows he won’t be able to.

His hips meet Freddie’s and then he’s still. It feels like a heartbeat and an eternity, but Freddie doesn’t rush him. Brian’s not sure whether he reaches out or whether Freddie holds onto him, but their hands wrap together, tight, and Brian uses it as an anchoring until he’s finally able to lift his head from where he’s buried it in Freddie’s neck.

Everything bold and wild and mad feels stripped away and amplified all at once. He can’t feel any of those things because of how humbled he feels, as if brought low at Freddie’s feet. He can only feel those things because now the world begins and ends with their bodies, with him and with Freddie, everything theirs for the taking.

He moves and Freddie groans, low, “_Oh_.”

“_Oh_,” Brian says at the same moment.

When Brian and Freddie have sex, laughter has become a staple. Maybe it comes from the nerves of possibly being caught or the ridiculousness of some of the situations they find themselves in. Or maybe just from fact that Freddie blushes exquisitely when he’s teased, lights up when he laughs, and Brian can’t resist being the cause of those. 

It doesn’t feel the slightest bit funny now. If Freddie were to laugh, Brian thinks he might actually die. 

But Freddie tips his head back, mouth slack and searching for Brian’s as Brian fucks back into him, slow and considered, and Brian can’t give him much but they can exchange ragged breaths, quiet noises neither of them can stop. Freddie, as if, somehow, Brian’s still not close enough, uses the hand he has wrapped up with Brian’s to pull Brian’s arm tight around him. If there was no space between their bodies previously, there’s even less now, every spare inch of Brian now seared against Freddie.

They move together, as one, slow at first but getting faster as the rhythm they find every time finds itself once again. It’s something intrinsic to his heartbeat, he’s sure, this alignment they find every time. This is what bodies are _ for _ , what his body is _ for_. Born to love Freddie Mercury.

Maybe Brian was wrong. Maybe he can take Freddie because he feels taken now. Maybe he can claim him because how can Freddie be anyone else’s when he’s giving himself so beautifully to Brian.

He feels so stupid and taken over by the white-hot clutch of Freddie’s body that it takes him a while to realise he’s talking. Chanting, really, Freddie’s name falling out of him like it’s tripping off his tongue, over and over, with Freddie’s moaning beneath him like a melody to follow.

A particularly inelegant - not that either of them could possibly give a shit about form right now - thrust tips them over so Freddie’s face is half-pressed into the covers, changes the angle, and the noise Brian makes is punched out of him as Freddie tightens around him.

Brian comes. He’d be surprised to have even lasted this long if he were capable of thought, if he were capable of anything that isn’t shouting Freddie’s name like a plea, like a prayer, and biting at the curve of Freddie’s shoulder as his hips stutter their way through what has to be the most intense orgasm of his life.

Sleeping with Freddie the first time had made him feel like a new world had dawned. Now, Brian feels remade and put back together again

Freddie seems to understand, again, the need for a pause as Brian searches for the breath stolen from his lungs, blinks his way out of climax, but only for a moment.

“_Brian _ ...” This time, his name is half-muffled and desperate, and Brian thinks it couldn’t sound more perfect. Freddie couldn’t look more incredible, dark hair curling around his ears with sweat, the smooth expanse of his back almost pale in the barely-there light of the room, body trembling with the need to come. “Darling, _ please_.”

His hips shift, seeking purchase, rubbing his leaking cock against the desecrated covers of Brian’s bed, and Brian hisses as the movement jostles where he’s still inside Freddie. He frees his hand from Freddie’s grip to land, momentarily, on the curve of his waist, holding Freddie still as Brian pulls out, and Freddie whines at the loss, characteristic impatience returning full force.

“_Not _ what I-” He gets halfway through saying when Brian drops his hand to the length of him and begins stroking steadily. His fingers are slick instantly. “Meant- _ God-” _

“I’ve got you.” The reassurance comes easy now, murmured in Freddie’s ear, and Brian feels the last dregs of Freddie’s control give themselves back over to Brian. Brian slides a thigh between Freddie’s legs and instantly Freddie grinds down in tandem with Brian’s hand. 

At the sight of Freddie like this, and with his orgasm still sparking along his vision and shuddering in his limbs, Brian can’t control his mouth. _ ‘C’mon, Freddie _ ’ becomes “C’mon baby, come for me,” and Freddie must like that because he moans again, high, _ loud_, and comes over Brian’s fist.

The world falls quiet around them.

Brian’s breath feels ragged on the first exhale he manages. He could lie here for an age, half atop Freddie, eyelids growing heavier, but forces himself to move. With a kiss to Freddie’s unresponsive shoulder, Brian slips from the room to find a cloth for them and feels the absence from Freddie at this point like a physical ache.

His legs are unsteady beneath him so he makes a detour on the way back, fills up a pint of water and drains the whole thing, refills it and brings it with him for whenever Freddie decides to be responsive once again.

“Don’t know how you move about so much after sex, darling,” Freddie mumbles into the pillow, hums a little as Brian wipes the come from his belly, from between his thighs. “I don’t think I’ll be moving until Christmas Day.”

“Roger might have something to say about that,” Brian laughs, a new flush to his cheeks, and he tosses the cloth away. 

They have to talk about it. Freddie might have given him the illusion of pride for most of the proceedings, but Brian knows he’s not going to get away that easy. This is why Freddie came to find him outside the pub which, _ Christ_, feels like hours ago now, and is exactly why Brian barely let him get a word out.

Freddie’s breath catches a little as he shifts, and Brian tries to hold onto that fact when Freddie looks up at him with dark, knowing eyes as he asks, “So, was it just boys or…” He trails off, and his fingers play with the necklace on Brian’s chest. 

“There wasn’t much opportunity for girls at an all boys school,” Brian says instead of answering, which is enough of an answer itself. He tips his head back, eyes fixing determinedly on the ceiling as he continues, cheeks warm in a distinctly less fun way now. “Our first time was..._ my _ first time.”

“_Oh_.” Freddie’s hand reaches up to rest at his cheek, pull him back. Brian goes. “_Please _ don’t be embarrassed, darling. I can assure you, there are times where experience means absolutely _ nothing_.”

That’s not _ quite _ as comforting as Freddie seems to think it is.

Freddie seems to hear it back for himself, and tries again. “I _ mean- _” And Brian kisses him instead of listening to whatever hole Freddie’s wandering mouth could lead them into. 

Neither of them are really in a state to deepen things, but it’s nice passing close-mouthed kisses back and forth and, given time, Freddie seems to come up with something better. 

He pulls back, hand on Brian’s chest to stop him from chasing. “Experience means nothing compared to sweetness.” This close, Brian can _ see _ the mischief glint in Freddie’s eyes. “And a big cock. Lucky for me, you’ve got both.”

Brian supposes he can handle that.

They manage to make their way under the covers. The sheets get tangled around their legs but they don’t have the energy left to fix them and honestly Brian’s sure it’s impossible to feel cold with Freddie tight against him so they just leave them as is and curl up together.

It’s not been often that they’ve managed to end up in Brian’s bed so it still feels a novelty having Freddie here. He rather likes it, he thinks, like Freddie brings a new context to the four walls he’s lived in for the past two years, makes it new and exciting and brilliant.

Instead of saying any of this he asks, “You’re staying here over Christmas break aren’t you?” with his fingers running up and down the line of Freddie’s back.

He knows Freddie is. Roger had asked him in a way that was really telling him that he’d told Freddie he could stay in the flat while they were away. Brian hadn’t asked why Freddie wasn’t going home for Christmas. Freddie hadn’t mentioned it to him so he wasn’t going to pry

“Mmm,” Freddie lifts his head, rests his chin on Brian’s chest. “But I was warned off of even _ attempting _ to stay in your room, dear. Something about pain of death and a terrible abundance of curly hair on pillow cases.” As if in evidence, he plucks one such off of the covers and laughs. “What _ must _ you do to the shower drain, darling-” 

Brian kisses him again to shut him up. “You can stay in here, if you like.” He says, forcing his voice to be even because there’s something about the idea of Freddie in his bed while he’s not around that he likes. The idea of Freddie kept in this pocket of space and time, as if waiting for him. “It’s bigger.”

“It’ll definitely seem that way when you’re not in here to take up half the bed.”

Which is an out and out lie. Freddie is definitely spread across more than his share of the mattress but since that also means he’s spread across Brian’s chest, Brian doesn’t mind.

He makes a show of being offended, pinching the soft skin of the curve of Freddie’s ass, and Freddie swats back in kind.

“When do you go?” Freddie asks, settling his head down again and, by the syrupy sound of his voice, finally giving over to the need to sleep that Brian can feel weighing down his own eyelids.

“Tomorrow morning.” Late afternoon more likely, judging by the growing heaviness to his limbs, the remnants of beer still in his system, and the fact that, if Freddie hasn’t slipped away, there’s always the possibility of lazy morning sex to see him off.

_ I’ll miss you _ he thinks but doesn’t say and lets himself fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy you would not believe i've had this thing written since literally march. why haven't i posted it.....good question. if you remember this au, well done and thank you
> 
> it was also never meant to be this long which means it did not get a reread before posting - please enjoy any blinding errors


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